Midnight Hours
by slang-fortunes
Summary: John is living with a sociopath. He is certain of it. (Eventual JohnLock)
1. Chapter 1

John had always prescribed to the understanding that he was undeniably and inescapably average. Sure, he was a doctor- he had graduated second in his class before enlisting- but, even that was average. There were over 200,000 doctors in Britain, all living the same average, doctor-_y_ lifestyle. He was also a soldier, he noted. But there were roughly 138,000 of those, as well. Living their average, soldier lives. So, he was just an average man, an average doctor-soldier, living an average doctor-soldier life, post Afghanistan.

Or, at least, that was what he had been doing, before it had been inexplicably interrupted by the absolute hurricane that was Sherlock Holmes. The raven-haired man was thrust forcibly into his life against his will, against his consent. Before he could blink, he had this- monster/sociopath/_disaster_ – forced upon him. It consumed his whole life, the disaster.

In that sense, Sherlock Holmes and Afghanistan were one in the same to John. Both were all-consuming, frustrating, beautiful, and dangerous. Both pushed him to the absolute edge of his sanity, to the borders of his self-control. But, that was what suited him. He thrived against the sharpness of that edge- proof could be found in the way his hand refuted its tremble within hours after meeting Sherlock. It was like his body knew: all of his senses told him- _we're back in a warzone. Back where we belong_. It was certainly true that Sherlock was a minefield. One wrong step and John might…

"-the traces of Silicone are to be expected. He must work in a factory- a factory- a factory that requires Silicone. It requires Silicone, so thus it must produce something that requires heat-protectant. Cookware? That's just a guess, but it fits. So, he works in a factory that produces cookware. How many of those are in or around London? John?" Sherlock was off- no time to think, now. _What? Pondering life, are you? How __**poetic**_. He could just hear his flatmate's bland reaction. Sherlock had no patience for anything that wasn't science or deduction. "John? Could you refrain from being your normal bumbling idiot? If it wouldn't be too much of a bother?"

"Sorry, Princess," He grumbled, though he was blushing with embarrassment- only for the notion that Sherlock would find him even more idiotic if he knew what occupied his mind. "What can I assist you with?"

"Get on that useless computer of yours and find me a cookware factory. Twenty-mile radius from inner city. We'll narrow the search once we have options." Sherlock was pacing, pacing, pacing. He was chasing his mind around the room, John imagined, trying to match its speed. His eyes were recording everything simultaneously: the way the walls looked, how full the ashtray was, the pile of old case files strewn about across the floor, the way John was watching him- "What are you doing?" he snapped.

"Google- it's loading." John measured calmly.

"No. I mean, you're watching me. Closely. Closer than normal."

"Because you look crazier than normal." John retorted, because cruelty was always easier than the truth. And this sort of ironic cruelty was a kind of currency between them.

"Ha. Ha. Ha. Your humour absolutely kills me. Now, the page has loaded- I can see the reflection off your watch." John opened his mouth to read out the hits but Sherlock just gasped and headed straight for the door. He had already read them, presumably off John's watch, or at least enough of them to recollect whatever thought he had once tucked away pertaining to this subject.

John headed after him with a quickened gate. But he walked stricter, straighter. Just like heading into war.

* * *

Two bodies in twenty-four hours. The night was just getting good for Sherlock, John thought. He watched the man- all height, all dark lines- lean over the corpse in the alley. He was rattling off, probably to John, though he wasn't close enough to hear. So, it was Lestrade that tried to listen and take note as John stood just in front of the yellow tape, watching from afar.

"There's something wrong in the way he likes finding bodies." Donovan noted, her eyes following John's. "He's completely psycho. You know that?" John just made an ambiguous noise. "It never fazes him: the idea that getting excited over a corpse is not normal at all."

"I don't think Sherlock is under any misconception that he's normal. He simply doesn't care." He knew that Donavon would never really understand that- not the way he did. The idea that Sherlock liked murders, liked examining bodies, even waited for a crime to crop up so that he would have some entertain him- it was becoming just as natural to John as any accepted truth. "What's the harm in him enjoying it? This is London, there's at least one murder by the time the sun goes down. He catches killers. It doesn't matter why he does it."

"When he gets bored with solving murders and starts planning them, then he won't seem so harmless. You think that, don't you? He's harmless. He's just a little eccentric. I'm sure you tell yourself he cares about you underneath it all- that he just acts this way. Let me tell you, John. He's not acting. He _is_ this way. He doesn't care- and that's because he doesn't really _feel_ anything."

John swallowed. He didn't want to admit he lost composure. He gave her a dead look (one he perfected by watching Sherlock). "I don't think he cares about me. I've only known him two weeks." Had it only been that long? He tended to measure his life in only two periods: Before Sherlock and After Sherlock. The A.S Period seemed to have little recognition of time- it felt as though it went on indefinitely, that it had always existed.

"Alright, John. I've seen enough, let's go." Sherlock had approached unnoticed, though John wasn't sure how he had managed it.

"What about the woman?" He nodded to the body on the cement being covered by the sheet. The edges of her bohemian gown were the last part of her visible under the covering of white.

"What about her? Had a pre-existing heart condition. Heartbeat irregularity. Just dropped dead, it happens. _Boring_." Donavon looked at John as if her point had been proved, but John had never doubted what she said was true. He just shrugged and trailed behind the black coat until the slid into a cab. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing. Just- work." The second the words escaped his mouth, he regretted them. Sherlock would see right through that lie. _That wasn't even a challenge, John_. He'd say-_mock._ He'd mock. Sherlock never simply said anything.

To his surprise, Sherlock didn't even question. He just nodded, staring distractedly out the window at rolling greyness. When they arrived back at the flat, Sherlock left him to his own devices. That felt strange. Usually, Sherlock would hang around, an unwanted spirit. He wouldn't speak, only mutter to himself (or at John, but not to him) or run his bow over the violin absently. But, tonight, he just picked up a few books and retired to his bedroom, leaving John with the entire living room and his thoughts.

To think that Sherlock didn't care about him: that wasn't hard to imagine. Sherlock only _just_ cared about Mrs Hudson, whom he had clearly known for years (neither of them had let on how many). Just cared enough to force niceties and not leave human organs in her fridge more than necessary. No, the idea did ring true. What really irked John was that he already cared about Sherlock.

He watched- watched to make sure the detective ate (because he quickly realized that eating was _boring_ and not in the Hierarchy of Sherlockian Needs), that he didn't take himself out with the gun, that he didn't try to off himself from utter boredom just to see what it felt like. He liked to chalk it up to the doctor in him, but he knew that wasn't it. The doctor in John was detached- a war doctor. He saw death all the time. His role was to give recommendation in regards to one's health and then let them make their own decisions. But, he wasn't about to let Sherlock make his own decisions.

He was already thoroughly attached to Sherlock. The bastard had wriggled his way into every aspect of John's life in a matter of weeks, making him completely dependent, while the other man was completely self-sufficient. He didn't need John Watson. Sherlock Holmes didn't need anyone. That made John even angrier. He let himself boil over with rage, silently until he was spent. Then, he just curled up on the sofa in the dark.

* * *

He woke to the kettle hissing. He barely stirred at first, giving the sunlight recognition through his closed eyelids, the sound of heavy footsteps in the kitchen taking up occupation with all the other unnoticeable sounds. "Tea is only worth anything when it's hot. So, you ought to drink it, now, before I go back on my friendly gesture and drink both cups myself."

"You can drink tea cold. It's called iced tea." John mumbled through his sleep. He heard a typical Sherlock scoff.

"People who drink iced tea are imbeciles. Now, get up." John rested in the upright position, opening his eyes. The curtains were open, allowing for that offending sunlight the come streaming into the windows, illuminating Sherlock's pale face in a way that left little sinister in it. "Honestly, I don't know how you can sleep so much."

"Well, it appears you never sleep at all." John retorted, which was true. He'd lived with Sherlock for two weeks and had never once caught the man asleep. He'd come in at any odd hour to find Sherlock pacing the living room, grumbling to himself. He was starting to believe the man had evolved beyond the need to rest (which, John knew, was physically impossible. But, this was Sherlock Holmes- the line between the probable and the improbable was always so blurred it was barely there at all).

"That would be because sleep is _boring_. I'd much rather be conscious- thinking, getting work done. Like we ought to be doing now. I just received a call from Lestrade. There is a body in Trafalgar Square."

John wanted to ask Sherlock if he even had dreams- but he didn't. Instead, he asked, "How'd a killer manage to murder someone in the middle of Trafalgar Square?"

"Most likely, he didn't. It's far more probable that the body was dumped there- possibly between the hours of two to three in the morning. There may still have been witnesses, but there'd be far less than during the early evening, or the beginnings of the morning rush around five. He's probably skilled, killed before, I'd imagine. Confident. But, that's about all I can figure without actually seeing the body- _which we can't do until you stop being useless_."

Sherlock had abandoned the tea, grabbed his coat, and had one foot out the door. "Jesus. Can't I shower? Or, at least, drink this bloody tea? The body's not going to walk away", John called after him, but it was useless. So, he just threw his hands up and followed Sherlock into an awaiting cab, still in last night's clothes.

They spent a few minutes in silence, Sherlock tapping his fingers in a rhythm against his knee. John could hear his own breathing a bit too loudly. He wondered if the detective knew how awkward the backseat felt, or if he even noticed such things. "Something Donavon said has shaken you." It was more of an accusation, proof he had picked up on the unconscious agitation. "About me. Something about me. What? That I'm a serial killer, perhaps? _How many bodies do you think I have under my belt, John?_"

John should have seen this coming. He knew Sherlock's observation skills hadn't failed him last night, he should've expected this. As per usual, Sherlock had just been biding time. "Christ, I don't think you've killed anyone. Don't be an idiot."

"I believe you mean: I haven't killed anyone _yet._ It's only a matter of time, I'm sure she told you. Until I stop solving murders-"

"-And start planning them. Yes, that's what she said. But I don't believe that bullshit." He finally plucked up the courage to look at his companion. He was staring back, emotionless.

"What do you believe?"

John didn't really know how to answer. But, leaving the silence gave Sherlock more room to deduce and that wouldn't help his case. So, the truth would have to do. "I think- I think you're a sociopath. You don't feel much- except maybe annoyance- and put up with people only until they no longer have use value. You solve murders only because you're bored. You have no interest in any humanitarian aspect. You don't care about helping people. I'd say you're selfish, but that's not even it. You don't care about yourself, either. You live for a chase, for a challenge. That's it."

He watched Sherlock. The man's eyes narrowed- not with anger, but with interest. Like the outburst had given him something else to study; a new challenge. Finally, he just smirked, "Very astute of you, John. You're absolutely right. But, let me ask you this: does that change anything?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you want to leave? Does my immorality bother you that much? I can answer that for you, I believe. It doesn't change a thing, because this truth doesn't affect you. You've always known what I was- you've never expected anything more. You're going to stay because you love the chase just as much as I do, if not more. You need it. What does that make you, John?" Surprisingly, there was no animosity there. Just a vacant voice, a lull. Sherlock did not even feign upset, which he normally did. He just spoke and then grew silent. John opened his mouth to speak, but he held up his hand. "Enough. I'm thinking- the murder. We're still in the chase."


	2. Chapter 2

The cab stopped just in front of the square, where a crowd had started to gather. John couldn't even see the yellow police tape marking off the area around the body, but he knew it was there. He took note of the swarm of news casters and journalists swimming about; automatically, his mind and his eyes fixed on Sherlock to see his reaction. 'Maybe, he'll just ignore them?' John had never seen the media at any of Sherlock's murder cases (because, to be honest, they _were_ his cases), but that may have been because the detective's locations of choice always seemed to be dark, back alleys and dingy apartments- not the place for cameras.

"_For fuck's sake."_ It was rare that Sherlock actually cursed, when John thought about it. Usually, he'd come up with more creative ways to express his frustration (like firing John's army rifle at the wall in the flat). But, the words came out so whiny- like a moody adolescent- that John had to chuckle. He couldn't resist it, even after the tense few moments they just had. After a second, Sherlock joined in. Finally, he breathed. "I prefer to work in solitude." _Solitude? _Before he could even ask, Sherlock replied- sounding bored, "You don't count as people, John. I didn't mean without you."

"Oh, how nice. Thanks for that." Though he tried to muster the best of his sarcasm, he felt unnecessary relief. Of course, it shouldn't have mattered whether Sherlock liked to have him around or not; he was just a flatmate. Besides, it really made little difference what Sherlock preferred. He barely _liked_ anything or anyone at all. But, in that moment, it had mattered and John felt automatic embarrassment.

"What? Not camera shy, are you?" Sherlock opened the door, albeit with hesitation, and hit the cement. He had already begun shoving his way through the crowd by the time John had come within ten paces behind.

Sherlock slid up beside the corpse, ignoring all questions fired at him by the media and all information being given to him by Lestrade. John dutifully took that information down, just in case it became useful- trying not to meet Donavon's eyes as he stood at Sherlock's back. They were all forced to stand quite close, as the parameters set out by the police had been smaller than usual, due to the uniformed officers' inability to keep the large crowd in check. John couldn't help but observe his companion at this moment- completely ignorant of any unwanted attention, muttering to himself like a maniac. He was nearly centimetres from the corpse, close enough to feel its breath, had it any. "Strangulation marks on the neck, clearly given by some sort or rope. Pattern in the skin suggests a thick, braided sort. Used in the handling of cargo boxes, notably. The killer was obviously left handed."

"Obvious, is it?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock just sighed in annoyance but did not answer.

"Clothes are askew, which could be proof of a struggle but was more likely done while the body was being moved. Whoever killed him was not strong enough to carry him easily, and appears to have dragged the body to this location."

"But, why here? It wasn't to conceal the body- obviously he wanted people to see it." John muttered, fearing that he was intruding on Sherlock's thought process. But, the taller man's eyes lit up and he nodded swiftly.

"**Yes**! Now you're asking the right questions. But, I think-" He stopped midsentence, turned on his heel, and ducked under the tape. He forced himself through the buzzing crowd with little resistance. John lost sight of him for a minute, only to rediscover him climbing the steps of the National Gallery. He looked out over the crowd, his eyes focusing on John. He seemed to rapidly measure the distance between them before pulling out his phone.

John's cell phone buzzed in his pocket.

I think he wanted someone specific to see it. – SH

Then again.

Someone he knew would be standing right where I am, before the police showed. -SH

John leaned over to show the messages to Lestrade, who nodded. "Alright- so, someone was meant to see this body. Who?"

"Someone he knew would be standing there- at a specific time. So, most likely someone who works at the gallery; but not anyone who works in management or restoration- they would enter through the back. A more menial job, tour guide or a security guard. Someone who would have reason to be here before dawn- so, a guard is looking like the most likely alternative." Sherlock had appeared at their side. _How had he managed that?_ John didn't even venture to guess- this was Sherlock. No use trying to figure anything out.

* * *

"Why? Why?" Back at the flat, Sherlock was pacing- as per usual- and muttering. John was watching him from a safe distance, the chair in the corner of the room.

"Why what?" Asking was a risk. Sherlock may explode- _the minefield_. But John felt as if he had to say something.

Sherlock stopped quick, jerkily. He turned to face John. The man was still a mystery to him, and John found himself wincing in preparation for the reaction. It always felt as if Sherlock was teetering on the edge of insanity- any little thing could send him over the edge. John measured his breathing.

Sherlock's face relaxed. "Why was the body meant to be seen? Who was it for? It just- it must be right here, _why can't I see it?_" He was overtly frustrated with himself, that was obvious. He returned to pacing.

"If it's any consolation, I can't see it, either."

"_Of course, you can't." _Even John could tell it came out harsher than intended. Sherlock's fist was clenched against his leg as he walked about. He stopped again to face his flatmate. "Look, I didn't mean-"

"I know what you meant. Really, it's fine." And John had meant it. He would never see what Sherlock saw and that was fine. He was already starting to see how heavy a burden such sight could be; it was one of the first times he noted how nice it was to just be average.


	3. Chapter 3

"This makes absolutely no sense." This was the fifth time in an hour Sherlock had made this point. He had retired from pacing and had taken to sitting in the chair across from John, his hands pulling lightly on his black curls. "There has to be a reason here- there always is. This killer wouldn't simply drop a body in Trafalgar Square." John could see him straining; straining to pull some fragment of understanding from this haystack. It was clear in the way his knuckles were white and his lip was quivering immeasurably underneath the pressure of his front teeth, though John realized how strange it was to be watching his flatmate so closely.

It was, perhaps, his embarrassment at his own perception that made him clear his throat. Certainly, this wasn't weird. Sherlock watched him in excess every waking minute- in much more detail than John could reciprocate. So, it wasn't a breach of privacy when he returned the act, as it were. "Look, maybe you need to take a step back from this."

"Pardon?" Sherlock seemed snapped from his mental train. As recognition became clear in his features, they settled back into confusion, as if the thought hadn't occurred to him before. John noted it probably hadn't.

"You know, take a break. Why don't we go get Chinese, or something? Get something to eat and give it a rest- it'll probably come to you. It always does." Always under the marginal threat of a psychotic break, John watched Sherlock for any signs of eruption.

"Go get Chinese? _Now?_" Sherlock didn't seem angry, per se. Just completely surprised. He let out a soft sigh- it was the first time John thought he looked tired in the few weeks he'd known him.

More secure in the idea that he was boarding with someone who was most likely _somewhat_ sane, he continued. "Yeah. Right now. There's that place just around the corner- you said the other day you'd wanted to try it."

"You remembered I said that?"

"Uh, yes?"

Sherlock's eyebrows quirked slightly. "I'm amazed you remember anything from last week. Your mind always seemed so _incapable_." He grabbed his coat, which was the silent assent to the motion to go for food. John followed suit.

"I'll let that one slide, only on the grounds that you seem to be suffering extreme mental trauma."

"Is that your professional opinion, Doctor Watson?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, it is." He caught the tail end of Sherlock's smirk as he turned from grabbing a pair of gloves. They both took the steps, Sherlock two at a time, and hit the cement with a quickened gate. John found himself a good three paces behind, as usual. "Has anyone ever told you that you're always running? Even when you're not in a hurry?"

"John," The dark haired man looked back, that ironic smile still playing at his lips in a way that left John feeling conflicted, "I'm _always_ in a hurry."

* * *

John ate quickly- always afraid that Sherlock would get carried away on a thought and he wouldn't get to finish his Dim Sum. Sherlock was sitting across the table from him at their window seat, using his chopsticks aptly, as if it were natural to him. Unlike John, he ate with patience, more like _restraint_. "Hey, can I ask you something?" John had caught himself wondering- and wondered if Sherlock would permit it.

"Yes?"

"Why was it obvious that the killer was left-handed?"

At this, Sherlock chuckled, though it managed to be only minimally condescending. "The ligature marks are deeper on the right side of the neck. It appears that the killer managed to get the rope around the head and then pull against the victim's weight. Also, there was a light bruise forming on the left side of the skull, suggesting that he may have applied force to the head in order to create more resistence."

"Not the most effective method of strangulation." John commented through a slurp.

"No. I'm beginning to think I was –_dare I say it?_- wrong. I'm starting to believe that the killer wasn't an expert at all. Probably his first killing," Sherlock admitting he was wrong was about as rare as a complete solar eclipse; it happened, but not very often. "But, that just means that the motive behind the killing was even more intense- to warrant a complete amateur to toss a body in the middle of a public place."

Still with a mouthful of food, John nodded. "Maybe, he did it for love?" This seemed to be almost too obvious an answer (alerting him to the idea that it was probably wrong).

"What did you just say?" He sounded incredulous. John became extremely self-conscious.

"Um, it was for love? They say it's the most passionate motivator-" Hew trailed off, squinting at his fork (not even attempting to use chopsticks), so he didn't have to face the look of absolute annoyance he must have been getting. The conversation ended abruptly- or so it seemed.

Suddenly, "John?"

"Hmm?" He winced. Sherlock must have thought he was a bloody idiot, to think Sherlock hadn't already completely exhausted that end.

"Have I ever told you that you are- _the most brilliant man I've ever met?_ Love- it's so obvious! It's been right in front of my face this entire time- I just couldn't see it. I was thinking of the killer as if he were like me; but, of course, he wouldn't be…. _He'd be more like you_. Amateur mistake." John would've been excessively pleased, had it not been for that last bit. 'More like me? What's that supposed to mean?' But, in typical Sherlock fashion, he answered before the question could be posed aloud. "I just meant that love would be of the utmost interest to him. It isn't to me- thus, you two are more similar than him and I."

"You wouldn't kill for love, then?" The question sounded wrong even as they passed his lips, but John still allowed them to go. They hung in the air for a moment.

Sherlock laughed, empty and short. "_Heavens, no_. If I were to kill anyone- which I suppose I should add, has never been of my interest- it would be for pleasure alone."

"Pleasure?!"

"Just to see if I could get away with it. Which, I reckon, I could, seeing as the police rely on me to solve their homicides. But, not in my future plans as of yet." Sherlock would never admit that he felt his abilities were better used to solve crime than create it.

John knew this- but he also knew that Sherlock was kind of _off. _His original assumption had been correct, John mused. 'I am living with a complete sociopath.'


	4. Chapter 4

Back at the flat, Sherlock had been pouring over all the facts of the case. He had sent John earlier in the evening to obtain the case photos from Detective Lestrade, and had proceeded to spread them out in equal rows across the floor. He had taken to sitting cross-legged at the edge of it all, rereading the notes John had taken down at the scene. "There must be something here." It sounded as if he were pleading with the facts to reveal something more.

"I took everything down," John replied softly from the armchair. He had been giving his flatmate silence and space- he already knew that he wouldn't be able to contribute to this aspect; he saw nothing new in any of the pictures, though it wasn't for lack of searching.

"Yes. They're very thorough. Thank you, John." Sherlock spoke in a monotone that John had gathered denoted he was deep in thought. John caught himself smiling; he should not be so happy to hear the man thank him.

"Better write this date down: Sherlock Holmes shows gratitude." John had spoken aloud to himself and felt automatically guilty when the focus of the comment overheard. He tried to never interrupt Sherlock Holmes because: A) His concentration always seemed so tense; athletic, even. Often, John just liked to watch him, as if watching him would give insight into the ways this powerful mind operated. And B) he still wasn't entirely certain that Sherlock wouldn't pick up the gun from the coffee table and shoot him if it suited his momentary fancy.

He broke his silence to mutter, "I've thanked you before." He didn't look up.

"When?"

"The first day we met. I asked Mike to use his phone- he didn't have it. You offered me yours. I said thank you."

John looked at his hands. He felt embarrassed –again- that he hadn't remembered, when Sherlock remembered it in great detail. Then, he reminded himself that Sherlock remembered _everything_ in great detail. "So you did." They settled back into a silence that was electric with the force of Sherlock's vibrating thoughts.

It was another hour before he began to pack the photos away. He stacked them meticulously, which John found strange since Sherlock was generally the least careful person he had ever met, and slipped them back into the envelope. As Sherlock busied himself with clearing up the case items, John allowed his eyes to close. It was almost three AM, John mused to the dark, and he hadn't intentionally stayed up this late since he was fourteen. He certainly wasn't used to it- with the exception of days after an insurgence, John would go to bed at ten every evening during his tour and rise at five. "You should call it a night, John." He distantly heard his flatmate's voice and forced himself back awake.

"M'fine."

Sherlock just gave him his token sceptical glance. However, when it appeared that John was determined to stay up indefinitely, he relented. "Seriously, go to bed. I'm going to need you tomorrow, so you'll need to try to _not_ be useless." John must have only dreamt it sounded kind.

"Need me tomorrow? What are we doing tomorrow?"

"We're going to catch a killer, of course. So, you ought to sleep tonight. Wouldn't want exhaustion to mar your marksmanship, should we need it."

"Wait- you know who the killer is? Why didn't you say? We could go now-" John went to get up but Sherlock didn't move.

He hummed, "I have a few ideas; seven, actually. A few of which I'll probably rule out before you wake up." He sauntered over to the sofa, plopped down, and picked up the newspaper. He began to casually flick through it.

"That's it, then? You're not going to tell me anything else?" John was getting irrationally frustrated- this was Sherlock, of course he wasn't going to tell him. He shouldn't have been surprised.

"I'm not telling you _tonight_. I'll tell you in the morning. **Goodnight, John**." He said it the way John recalled his mother always used to when he refused to sleep as a child. Insistent, firm. In the end, it was John who forfeited.

* * *

"**John? John?" **He awoke to Sherlock shaking him sharply. His eyes flew open as he sat up. He noted that he was covered in a sheet of cold sweat, but in the face of his friend's urgency, he ignored it.

"What is it?" The strange look- _fear?_- on Sherlock's face narrowed to confusion, as if John's question didn't make sense to him. "What? Did I oversleep? -Alright, seriously, why are you looking at me like that?"

Sherlock just sat at the edge of John's bed, his hand on his chin. "You were –screaming. You were screaming, John." He seemed to gather that John was not in mortal danger and, thus, had regained his distance. That unrecognized flash in his eyes settled into neutrality, but he didn't move off of the bed.

"Oh." _Well, that was embarrassing_. John found himself to be embarrassed a lot, lately. He tried not to look at Sherlock, who had become half invisible in the darkness of the room. Clearly, dawn hadn't broke, as the line underneath the curtain was still black. "Well, what time is it? Can we do anything, now? Your ideas- what are they?"

"You were only asleep for two hours. The average adult requires at least six to function normally." Sherlock replied simply, as if pure fact would convince John to return to sleep.

"And you never sleep, so the data doesn't actually qualify."

"I said _average_ adult."

John hissed, "Of course you did."

"Irritability is the most commonly attributed symptom of sleep deprivation."

"Jesus, I just want to catch the killer- you, of all people, should understand that." He watched as Sherlock kicked off his shoes and swung his legs up on the bed. He pressed his back against the headboard. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to sit here and wait for you to fall asleep." He replied coolly, as if there was nothing strange about the idea. Of course, John thought, Sherlock would not understand the connotations of a grown man watching another grown man sleep.

"I'm not afraid of the dark, Sherlock."

"You could have fooled me, the way you were screaming."

"Could I?"

"No. It's only a figure of speech, John." He deadpanned. In that moment, John could have burst into laughter. He knew he should be irked by Sherlock's absolute inability to grasp normal human banter, but he had already grown so accustomed to it, he only found it to be absolutely hysterical. To be frank, normal human relationships were not something John was apt at upholding, so, perhaps Sherlock was the best for him.

Best _flatmate _for him. He meant flatmate for him. _Of course_.

He sighed and resettled himself on the pillow. "You're serious."

"Of course." John just rolled over and shut his eyes. Sherlock picked up the book from the table by the bedside and began reading it (again, typical Sherlock; but John wasn't fussy about people looking at his things). Between the rustling of the pages and Sherlock's intermittent sighing (likely at the flaws within the deduction- it was a crime novel), John found it easy to fall back to sleep.


End file.
